


Stocking Drabbles

by the_casual_cheesecake



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Avengers Vol. 5 (2013), Breathplay, Canonical Character Death, Civil War II (Marvel), Invincible Iron Man Vol. 2 (2015), M/M, Post-Civil War, Road Trips, Secret Wars (2015), hickmanvengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21877708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_casual_cheesecake/pseuds/the_casual_cheesecake
Summary: This is a collection of drabbles made for the "you gave me a stocking" exchange.Ch1: 'Steve and Tony go on a road trip' for NigmuffCh2: 'Post-CW, Tony visits Steve's grave' for IronlawyerCh3: 'The Hickmanvengers hang out in the common room of the tower and Tony tries to be at peace for a moment'  for MagicasenCh4: 'Tony goes to Victor von Doom for- something, after Steve dies in CW' for CraitCh5: 'Stephen is awake while Battleworld sleeps' for WynnesomeCh6: 'Tony meets Victor at a royal function, an inadvisable sexual encounter ensues' for RossKLCh7: 'Tony and Victor meet in Latveria before Civil War II starts' for MassiveSpaceWren
Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Victor von Doom
Comments: 43
Kudos: 51
Collections: You Gave Me A Stocking 2019





	1. Names of endurance, names of devotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nigmuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nigmuff/gifts), [Ironlawyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironlawyer/gifts), [Crait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crait/gifts), [magicasen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/gifts), [wynnesome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnesome/gifts), [RossKL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RossKL/gifts), [MassiveSpaceWren](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MassiveSpaceWren/gifts).



> Thank you to Loran, Imp, Cat, and Wynne for being lovely people and giving me attention cheering me on as I wrote those, I'm so lucky to have you guys when my brain is being mean. And thank you, Loran and Wynne, for your notes and beta work, you're what makes any of this readable. <3
> 
> Drabble titles are all Richard Siken's. I decided to limit myself to the feeling that the poetry lines were giving me to make drabbles and not get carried away and make fics, so each piece has its poem in the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Nigmuff, who's a fluff monster and a menace, I know this is not exactly fluff (I have been repeatedly told so by so many people smh) but I tried my best to make it sweet, I hope you like it. Happy holidays, Sa3ide <3

_“Names of endurance, names of devotion,_  
_street names and place names and all the names_  
_of our dark heaven crackling in their pan._ ”

“Tony,” Steve sighs and it’s one of many since they got underway. They are in a car, and Tony’s driving. They are on their way from New York to California because Steve has never taken the trip, and it’s an American tradition. It’s what people do when they don’t know what to do with themselves.

Steve is sighing because Tony is driving very fast on the empty road. He is sighing because he won’t yell at Tony for it. He is sighing so that he doesn’t smile back at Tony and encourage him. Tony is fluent in the language of Steve’s sighs.

The sky is orange with the color of the dying sun, and the mountains stretch forever over the horizon.

“Steve,” he answers with his own sigh. Steve’s name on his lips is always a wonder. Every utterance is a privilege he can barely believe is granted to him.

Sometimes Tony thinks that he and Steve only work in the in-betweens, the little spaces they carve out for themselves when there’s no battle to be fought. Small eternities. Little stolen moments. Times of stillness and waiting, when water closes over their heads and buries them in blue, tempering their incipient explosions.

The air is playing with both of their hair, and it’s cold but Tony is enjoying the aesthetics of it too much to close the windows. Whether Steve notices or cares is irrelevant because Steve is known for indulging Tony in his whims.

Steve wakes up every morning and starts the coffee before he goes on his run because he knows Tony hates having to make it himself while he’s still half-asleep and his bots somehow never make it right. Steve wears blue shirts often enough it’s become a tabloid joke because Tony stares at him longer when he does. Steve knows the names of Tony’s favorite songs and has playlists dedicated to his moods. Steve does not care about the cold, does not care about the speed, never does, not if Tony is smiling.

Tony looks from the corner of his eyes at Steve; Steve is staring.

“What?” Tony asks. Steve shakes his head and does not ask Tony to slow down.

“You love me,” Steve says, and Tony laughs.

“You love me,” he answers, and his neck tingles where Steve has bitten marks into him.

Here, out on the highway on the edge of civilization, where all they can see are the billboards, the sky, and nature sprawling, beautiful and commanding and bigger than both of them, the odd, true declarations feel essential to keep them in the car, to keep them from floating into infinity.

Steve puts a hand on Tony’s thigh and leans in to kiss his cheek. “Tony,” he whispers in his ear, and this time his name isn’t affection disguised as sighs; it’s its own kind of statement. Steve whispers “Tony,” and Tony hears _“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m so glad I’m with you. I’m so glad the fighting is over. Let’s stay in this car and never stop driving.”_

The road stretches forever and Tony drives with Steve’s hand warming his entire body through one point of contact. He’s breathing easily. The world is quiet. Steve is here.


	2. you’re on both sides of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Iron, I hope I hurt you well. Happy holidays <3

_When you bang on the wall you have to remember  
you’re on both sides of it already but go ahead,  
yell at yourself._

There is a particular feeling in his chest that he gets whenever he thinks about Steve. He thinks it’s something similar to acid dripping slowly onto his skin, corroding it into a hole bit by bit, until he is paper-thin where his heart is, until he has an empty circle in the middle of his being. He wonders how people don’t see it. He feels like he’s losing parts of himself with every step he takes towards the grave because his chest is open, and he’s leaking out of it.

He’s not drunk -- but he wishes he were. This is the first time he’ll be visiting Arlington since the funeral.

Inside his head, he is holding a bottle of very expensive whiskey and drinking as he yells into the quiet, serene air. He has words to say. Blame to cast. He has odes to recite and anger to cry out and so much love it’s about to choke him, but all he can do every time he opens his mouth is scream.

He doesn’t know how he reaches the white headstone because he feels like he lost his legs somewhere beyond the gates.

_Steve Rogers_  
_1922 - 2006_  
_Avengers Assemble_

This is such bullshit. It’s utterly useless. Assemble. What a joke. Tony sniffs and wipes at his eyes. The imaginary bottle smashes against the white stone and shatters to break the silence outside his head. The whiskey taints the white rust-brown, and the smell wakes up the world, and everyone realizes that this is ridiculous. They will come for Tony’s head, and he will scream as they cut it off, and then the screaming will stop, and he will sleep, and he won’t think about Steve anymore.

It’s quiet in the cemetery.

Assemble.

Tony imagines the Avengers standing around the headstone, head bowed low in respect, assembling for Steve endlessly, still and mourning forever.

He takes a breath, and he doesn’t scream out loud.

He looks down at the grass growing over Steve. He thinks if he concentrates hard enough, that he could taste the dirt in his own mouth, can feel the worms eating at his own body. Steve fell out of Tony’s chest and started the decay. Tony should be down there too.

The whiskey is replaced -- Tony’s surprised at his kindness towards himself -- and he’s screaming at the headstone as he drinks now. His voice is hoarse, and he’s sobbing between the bouts of shouting. Tony thinks he can hear Steve’s name in his own ragged breaths.

He takes a step forward -- careful how you step on the ground; the love of my life lies under it -- he lowers himself to his knees and breathes the oxygen that’s made by greenery growing from out of the dead.

The screaming becomes short hiccuping breaths, whines at every exhale.

Tony wonders how the world is still spinning. Even in death -- his own or Steve’s; it doesn’t make a difference, really -- Tony’s arrogance is stunning.

He doesn’t cry.

He gets up and leaves Arlington the way he came.


	3. the essence of love and failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Magic, thank you for being lovely and writing glorious Hickmanvengers for me to enjoy, and for organizing this event, it was a brilliant idea. <3

_Let’s say you’ve swallowed a bad thing and now it’s_  
_got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure._

The Avengers are sitting around in the living room. Tony is on the floor, back to the armchair where Steve is sitting; Steve’s hand is in his hair. Tony’s eyes are closed, but he can still hear Clint telling an outrageous story and Natasha quietly giggling and scoffing to hide it. The new kids -- Shang-Chi, Guthrie, and Da Costa -- are playing cards at the coffee table; they are loud and enthusiastic and cursing up a storm every time one of them does well, or does badly, or does anything at all.

It’s a good team. They like each other; Tony can hear their affection for each other in each of their voices. Avengers are only good when they’re family. No lies in the mix. No betrayals. Tony swallows and leans his head back and to the side against Steve’s thigh.

_No lies._

The hand in his hair is soothing; his entire body is relaxed into its touch.

“--no, that is definitely not how the game goes!” Da Costa exclaims.

“Sure it is,” Guthrie answers. “Cap is on my side, right, Cap?”

“Keep me very far away from Uno-related issues.” Steve’s voice rumbles out of his chest and into Tony’s. “A team card game wouldn't be the least thing that's incited attempted murder, son.” And then Steve laughs, and the room is two degrees yellower. Tony knows without opening his eyes, Steve’s happiness is radiant.

He imagines the color spreading through the air, across his own cells, reviving his soul, curing his guilt. He thinks it would feel the same as when Steve thrusts into him, the same intensity, the moment of belonging.

He rubs his face against the rough material of Steve’s pants, takes the impression of it on his skin. Tony feels like a thief. He is stealing touches, sounds, declarations that he doesn’t deserve, not now, not after-- He feels filthy.

“Are you asleep?” Steve’s voice is hushed, and his fingers don’t stop moving. Tony shakes his head and doesn’t open his eyes. It’s such a wonderful moment in time, this vision of tranquility. It happens so rarely, and Tony always ends up destroying the good things in his life. He doesn’t want his gaze to fall on this, not now. Can’t he-- He wants to hold on just a little longer, just until his body learns to be warm on its own.

_No lies._

Shut up. Shut _up_.

He concentrates on the room again; Natasha has been roped into the game too now, poor kids. Clint is trying to lure Steve into a bet on the match. Steve is resolutely refusing. Sensible.

_Isn’t that right, brother?_

He opens his eyes.

The room looks normal. The curtain is down, the scene is over, and the applause, if it ever existed, has dissipated into the ether. Tony’s back is stiff from the way he’s sitting. Someone left the window open, and the sounds of traffic are starting to hurt his head. His right-hand itches where the Illuminati communicator is embedded. He shifts; Steve’s hand pauses, and then it is no longer in his hair.

The game of Uno continues. Steve joins in despite his protests.

Tony stays on the floor, cold, aching a little, but that’s normal. It’s routine. It’s almost boring -- and then his palm flashes a moment of red, and he makes a fist just before his brain catches up to him, and the moment is not just over, it’s shattered to pieces. Steve’s warmth burns, the sounds of traffic sound like explosions, and all he can see is crimson enveloping the room in betrayal and death.

He swallows a bitter-tasting lump in his throat and extricates himself from the scene with a muttered excuse about work.

Laughter follows him to the hall.


	4. only felt good while moving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Crait, who requested DoomTony, made my entire heart happy, and gave me an excuse to write more Doom. I hope you enjoy this, Crait. <3

_I wanted to be wanted and he was_  
_very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving._

Tony is a genius; the fact that he knows this and admits it without reservation is what leaves people either charmed or disliking him immensely. He is quick, inventive, and very, very perceptive. Tony Stark is also not gentle with himself. So as he lies on his back upon decadent green sheets in Victor von Doom’s bedroom, being fucked by a tyrant, he knows why he’s doing it -- why he’s letting this happen to him.

Victor isn’t gentle with Tony either. He demands and takes everything Tony’s body can give him with no pause or allowances for what Tony might need. It feels like Tony’s fucking himself, really. He snorts at the thought. Victor growls at him for the noise and hits his thigh with one powerful palm. Tony doesn’t explain himself. Victor doesn’t expect him to. Words don’t really matter in this arrangement.

Tony doesn’t come here often, though Latveria is beautiful, and Victor, when he isn’t a one-man invasion force running rampant over his borders, gives Tony time to wander around the kingdom and clear his head; he also looks at him like he _understands_ , enough so that Tony believes him. He comes here when his head is screaming too loudly for him to work, when drinking seems like a more viable option than not.

Victor has his mask on; he never kisses Tony, and Tony never asks him to, not even when his mouth aches from the lack of touch. He touches his body, though; every millimeter of Tony feels encompassed. It’s like Victor is trying to compensate, apologize for withholding his mouth by devouring him with fingers and cock.

It’s summer, and the window is open. The castle decorates the peak of a mountain, and Tony can hear the rustling of the leaves against the painted glass, and the wind playing music with its sister breeze that escapes from under the door. They minglen the middle of the room and pull at the wood of both door and window, the creak of it joining the orchestra of Latverian weather.

“Stay with me, Tony,” Victor says.

“I’m here,” Tony replies. He’s panting but his voice is blank even to his own ears, so, Victor pauses, and brushes Tony’s cheek with unusual tenderness. “You’re crying,” he adds, and oh, Tony hadn’t realized he was.

“Please don’t stop,” Tony says.

_How very well-adjusted of you, Tony._

His inner voice sounds like Steve.

Victor looks at him for a moment and then nods his head once and grabs Tony’s legs to fuck into him deeper.

It’s been six months since-- _blood on white marble. The screaming of the crowd. The little gasp and then the dying last breath picked up by a too-sensitive, Stark-designed earpiece. The shield. The bullet. The cold, cold skin. No. No._ NoNoNoNoNoNo. Stop!

Tony gasps and holds onto one of Victor’s arms. He stares into his eyes behind the metal mask. They’re very brown. Not blue. Victor’s skin is darker. He’s built big, but differently. Built like someone who hauls a metal armor around all day. His shoulders carry very large burdens; his eyes, too.

Victor is breathing heavily. He’s honoring their unspoken agreement and fucking Tony roughly enough to knock the thoughts out of his head -- or at least attempt to -- but still touching him with his entire body. Tony thinks about the armor, and holds on tighter to Victor. The other man makes a wounded noise when their chests touch and hugs Tony closer, lifts his back off the bed, and fucks him deeper.

Some things, Tony thinks, break people in irreparable ways. He imagines there are shards jutting out of his chest where bullets didn’t hit him. He thinks that maybe, Victor’s shards fill in the empty spaces.

Steve snorts in his head, an ugly sound that tears Tony apart.

“Come back,” Victor pants into his neck and then scratches his nails across Tony’s back, and Tony doesn’t have time to answer because he’s coming, and the words on his tongue turn to whines. Victor hisses his release soon after, and then it’s quiet again.

When Victor pulls out and away, the wind sneaks back to Tony’s chest, and he shivers. It feels like it snuck inside him, found him empty, and so, filled him with its ice cold current.

Victor leaves to shower, and Tony doesn’t miss him, not really; his cells are too busy screaming for someone else. He wishes he weren’t alone. The gunshots echo in his head and make him flinch. He laughs ruefully into the empty air. He wishes he _were_ alone.


	5. safe from the fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Wynne, thank you for your friendship, darling. <3

_If there was one thing I could save from the fire,_  
_he said, the broken arms of the sycamore,_  
_the eucalyptus still trying to climb out of the yard —_

  
They are lying in bed. Victor is asleep, his scarred face is relaxed and peaceful. Stephen wants to trace the scars with his fingertips; he would be gentle with it, as much as he can, he’ll hold his hand steady despite the shaking and follow the lines marring Victor’s skin like he would sacred, ancient text. Victor would only have to allow it once, Stephen wouldn’t ask for more. He’d memorize the lines he loves so much, and then he’ll draw them in his memoirs and never mention it again as long as he lives- not uninvited, though.

He imagines the look of utter betrayal on Victor’s face and would rather let his hands burn than witness it.

The dim light of the stars is streaming in through the window of the palace. Stephen is grateful for the lack of sun; the brief reprieve of the guilt Johnny Storm’s imprisonment has condemned him to.

Victor is a god, and gods are cruel by nature. Stephen has made a choice in following this one -- in bestowing power upon him -- a long time ago. He has carved himself out a place in the world by his side. He has made the only choice that matters.

The objects of power hiding deep within his island haunt him.

He doesn’t want this world to be destroyed. Every day, he works hard to keep its balance. This confliction is an illness. He settles his head back on Victor’s chest and cuddles closer to him. He knows Victor likes this, and it feels like an apology for his sedition. Wholly inadequate. Victor’s arm grabs him closer as he shifts in sleep. Victor is warm and large, lying with him like this makes Stephen feel pleasantly small and enveloped.

Victor is all around him. He is all-encompassing. Stephen shivers with a chill that moves through the places not being touched by Victor; his neck feels cold where Victor’s breath isn’t warming it, his back is envious of his chest for the touch that it gets to steal. Victor smells like Battleworld in its deepest forests, like magic and earth, like raw power. Stephen buries his nose in Victor’s underarm where he’s radiating warmth and inhales it into him, wishes he could inhale sleep with it too.

He wonders if Victor would forgive him his treason if he used the Infinity Gauntlet to heal his face; if it worked. Stephen imagines granting Victor the one thing he could not do himself, despite being god. He imagines the awe on Victor’s face, the disbelief, and then the anger and fear. Stephen knows him enough to know his rage intimately; the violet monster made up of terror and trauma. Even now, he knows he isn’t exempt from its touch. He finds himself answering his own question:

No, Victor would not forgive him. He would see it as the transparent plea for mercy it is and call it pity. Victor von Doom is not a man who tolerates being pitied.

Stephen plays with the hair on Victor’s abdomen, paints runes into his skin with a finger and prays to gods that do not exist anymore for this to have a soft end, or maybe for them to stay like this; tangled in each other under starlight as their world sleeps.

Victor turns with a snore and traps Stephen in his arms against his chest. Stephen smiles a secret grin against Victor’s skin.

_He loves you. He loves you. He loves you._

It’s a heady feeling to be so sure of it, but he is, and it makes him wish a hundred times more for time to freeze, to preserve this moment for eternity. He won’t know the answer to his private questions. He won’t have to open his vault. He won’t know what it is like to feel the wrath of a god that loves and is betrayed.

A moment of stillness, saved from the fire.


	6. swallow him up; he's beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for Ross, here darling, have some DoomTony bad decisions porn, happy holidays!

_We have swallowed him up, they said. It's beautiful. It really is._

“Fuck, Victor—” Tony whines, and gets a firm hand over his mouth faster than he registers Victor moving. 

He’s pressed against the ornate bathroom wall of the royal palace in Wakanda and Tony can clearly hear people moving around outside, but Victor has a gloved hand down his pants and is stroking Tony’s cock and Tony can’t fucking think. Victor is looking straight into his eyes, a gaze as intense as when he’s fighting. Tony can smell magic in the air already - whether it’s a trick of memory or Victor actually losing control enough to exude it, Tony isn’t sure - but the sharp smell drags a whine out of Tony’s throat. 

Tony didn’t plan on fucking Victor von Doom tonight, he didn’t. But he had walked into the ballroom and connected eyes with the King across the room like a fucking heroine in a romance novel, and Victor had nodded at him, looked him up and down - a filthy, probing gaze, really - and then he had sipped from the whiskey in his hand, keeping his eyes intensely locked with Tony’s, and Tony grew to half-mast in the space of a second. 

He remembers nothing afterwards. He must have mingled, must have kept up the appearance of normalcy. He knows he didn’t go to the bar, he honestly wouldn’t have survived the media scandal if he had, not now, not when war was coming. He could feel the burning judgment of Carol’s eyes on him miles away.

He can remember licking his lips the entire night expecting the deep, bitter taste of the whiskey on Victor’s mouth, and getting a dizzying mix of relief and disappointment at the salty tang of his own sweat.

Victor’s leather-gloved hand twists over the head of his cock. Tony sobs a moan into the solid wall of Victor’s palm. 

“Quiet, Anthony,” Victor orders.

Tony wonders if Victor thinks he’s helping him leash his voice by being his usual, imposing self, because instead, Tony gets impossibly harder. He knows the exact moment Victor notices, because the other man smirks and runs a teasing finger down the underside of his cock, tsks, and with bored disapproval, says, “I should leave you here, drooling and heaving like a dog, for your companions to find. Look at you; so desperate for it, for  _ me _ . It’s pathetic.” 

Tony’s mouth runs dry and he whines a stutter of air from deep within his throat. If he could speak, he’d be begging. Instead, he thrusts up into Victor’s hand. Victor rolls his eyes, but wraps the leather around Tony once more. 

“I’m surprised they let you go unsupervised; they must know how needy you are, how fast you’d bend down for anyone willing to give you the time of day, give you what you crave, hmm? I thought the Captain would have you on a tighter leash.” Victor tsks again. “The neglect of such a wanton creature is abominable; I should write him a letter. What do you think, Anthony? Hmm? The care and upkeep of one Tony Stark— I’ll start with detailed instructions to have you on your knees at least once a day.” 

Tony’s eyes roll to the back of his head and he lets out an unabashed moan of pleasure and shame. Victor’s hand leaves his mouth, and Tony gasps for air and inhales the dizzying smell of alcohol instead, then the hand wraps around his throat in the space of a blink. 

“Now, now, I know you love attention, Anthony, but summoning the party to us doesn’t reflect well on my royal person.”

Victor squeezes, his eyes focused on his own hand, like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Tony feels, suddenly, invisible to him. Victor licks his own lips, his eyes darken with lust, and for the first time this evening, Tony can see that he’s affected by this too. Victor’s lust suspends the room on a tightrope of danger; nothing that excites Victor von Doom can be sane, and Tony is flayed open by the attention, he feels his mouth opening on a silent gasp. 

Tony is so close - his hips keep making small, stuttered movements into Victor’s hand - but Victor stays still, watching, like he can see Tony’s breath escaping him and he doesn’t want to miss a moment of it. Tony’s mouth forms a silent  _ please _ and Victor’s head tilts, considering, then his hand starts moving again, fast and rough, the creases of the leather feel good enough that Tony wants to cry. 

Victor’s face is so close to his now - Tony can feel his hot breath on his lips - and  _ oh god,  _ he can  _ smell _ the whiskey. All he can do is mouth more pleas. 

_ Please kiss me. Please don’t. Please ruin me with this. Mercy.  _

“Beautiful,” Victor whispers, absently. The air inside Tony’s lungs is made up of Victor and alcohol; he wants to sob. 

There is a litany of implorations humming under Tony’s skin. 

Victor exhales, once. Tony shivers. Then he leans in and invades Tony’s mouth with his tongue. The dark taste of whisky and doom settles inside Tony just as Victor strokes the head of his cock in his palm.

Tony comes with a gasp and a taste of catastrophe. 


	7. we collide, we limp away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Wren, you requested DoomTony and I was more than happy to provide. I hope you like it. <3

_ We collide with place, which _

_ is another name for God, and limp away with a _

_ permanent injury. _

“I was god once,” Victor says into the air between them.

“I’m not surprised. You reek of a pretty severe god complex,” Tony answers instantly. Victor chuckles and leans back in his armchair, though his face remains grave.

They’re sitting next to a window; the view is stunning. Latveria is always beautiful in winter. Tony loves the natural silence of it; it’s almost as if it’s waiting for its ruler to speak, everything whispers in deference to him.

Said ruler has his fingers steepled under his chin and is contemplating the chess board between them now. He looks– not happier, but calmer than any time Tony has ever seen him, and he’s very, annoyingly handsome. Tony is staring, but he isn’t going to stop because he knows Victor has noticed already, he’s probably biding time to call Tony out. Tony won’t gift him his shame as leverage for it.

“So, are we going to wait through the performance of me beating you at chess to negotiate? Because I was kinda planning on being home tonight,” Tony says.

Victor’s head doesn’t move from over his fingers, but his eyes look at Tony, all silent judgment and kingly poise. “It’s rude to demand things of your hosts when your seat is not yet warm underneath you.”

“I’m not here to drink tea and chat about the state of your garden, Victor.”

“No, you’re here to ask for my help. I think it’s fair of me to expect a level of indulgence of my hospitality from you.” Victor answers, in his low, gravelly voice. Tony doesn't imagine the vibration of it on his skin, he doesn’t.

Victor hums and leans over to the board to move his pawn. His fingers are long and elegant on the black piece. Tony finds himself studying them. He knows Victor plays the piano; hasn’t heard him playing, of course, but he can imagine those fingers dancing on the black and white keys, making the type of grandiose music that only works in castles, only works under the ministrations of a man just as grand.

“Well, I don’t have any tea,” Tony teases. Victor smiles around a huff of air. “Besides, I am not here to ask for help,” Tony continues.

“Aren’t you?” Victor studies him for a long while.Tony tolerates it, mirrors it, for a moment and then directs his gaze to the board. He’s losing. One look at his pieces, scattered, isolated, surrounded by black on all sides tells him so – maybe he’s distracted. The early taste of defeat is bitter nonetheless. He moves a pawn.

“Do you want to die?” Victor asks eventually.

Tony drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Not pulling your punches today, are you? What happened to the rules of hospitality?”

“I dislike seeing you in ruins.” Victor’s voice is leashed, but Tony can hear the wave of concern underneath it.

Tony barks a laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Victor nods at him, a hand moving to his chin as he looks away and out of the window. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d say the shadowing on his face paints regret.

“I don’t want to die,” Tony whispers through the reluctance in his throat. 

“And yet, you’re not here for help. Curious, that,” Victor answers almost before Tony’s finished speaking.

“Carol is my friend, Victor.” Tony wants his words to be confident, certain, they end up choked instead.

“Ms. Danvers is going to kill you, and you’re a fool not to prepare for that eventuality.”

Tony’s gut feels bruised at the words. Somewhere inside him, in the parts of his brain labeled  _ Futurist _ , he knows Victor is right, but his heart aches. He almost wants the war to rage so he’d know for certain that, given the choice, his friends wouldn’t butcher him – that’s not why he’s waging a war though. The knowledge that he’s  _ right _ hums under his skin.

“You can’t bully me into accepting your help, Victor. I am not Reed Richards.”

Victor glares at him and slides in his seat to move his queen.

“Check.” he says, viciously.

Tony shakes his head and rubs at his eyes.

“I am not going to cower in Latveria and hide in your arms, Victor.” Tony breathes and moves his king one field to the right.

“And why not?”

Victor’s queen follows.

“Steve agrees with me.”

One more move for Tony’s king. The game is lost anyway. Tony holds his piece in hand for a long moment, contemplates felling it and claiming his defeat for himself. He lets it land on the next square reluctantly.

“It wouldn’t be your first death at his hands,” Victor says, voice dark with malice and a hint of desperation.

Tony swallows a lump of trauma.

“Check mate,” Victor says, and knocks Tony’s king off the board with his queen. It rolls on the floor and stops at the foot of his seat.

Tony stands up, dusts his pants in an awkward fidget, takes one last look at the room and moves to leave.

“Tony.” Victor grabs his hand in a gentle palm. “Please.” It’s a restrained whisper that sounds dragged from the depth of Victor’s throat.

Tony turns around. Victor’s eyes are deep wells of indecipherable roiling emotions. It’s possibly the most expressive Tony has ever seen him. He leans down and sets a hand on the sharp angle of Victor’s cheekbone, hesitates for a moment and then kisses him, just a small touch of lips.

“I have a war to fight,” Tony whispers, and then leaves the silence of Latveria.


End file.
